


Christmas Morning

by Solea



Series: Homecomingverse [2]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Gen, John and Sherlock are Parents, Multi, Parent Sherlock, Parent!lock, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solea/pseuds/Solea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas morning at 221B Baker Street and all is not as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amilyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn/gifts).



“No.” Hands clenched, chin tucked in, stance widened, Sherlock thinks John looks as though he’s squaring up for a fight with a pcp riddled boxer rather than his own slight offspring, huddled up in a blanket on their sofa.

“Why?” Charlotte tilted her chin up so that she could look scathingly down at her dad while still looking up at him. At eight, she has perfected the I’m-sure-whatever-is-coming-is-not-worth-my-time glare. Sherlock recognizes the posture instantly and jumps in to save John from the inevitable descent into flustered rage that kind of treatment always engenders.

“Mostly it’s charming, you know. When you ask ‘why’ about everything. However, at the moment it’s irritating, Charlotte, because it’s redundant. You know very well _why_.” he says coolly and finds himself the object of the child’s unmitigated attention. Her expression melts seamlessly from haughty indifference to heart-melting entreaty.

“But Papa,” she sighs, and damned if he doesn’t feel the tug there, deep in his chest, just for a second. Privately, he gives her several points for effectiveness.

“Dad said no. What about that is so difficult to understand?” he demands.

“But...before...you said--”

Sherlock hisses in a breath in the way that means she’s trodden on his absolute last nerve.

“ _Before_ being the operative word, my girl. _Before_ you sneaked down here and peaked in every present in the middle of the night. _Before_ you drank an entire quart of unspiked eggnog. _Before_ you ate all the hors d'oeuvres meant for Christmas Dinner. _Before_ you decided to experiment with the turkey brine rendering the bird inedible.” Sherlock pauses for dramatic effect, letting the list of wrongs sink in a bit. Charlotte squirms on the couch, looking at the floor. He decides she’s ready for the rest.

“Christ, Charlotte, even _I_ know not to mess with Christmas dinner. Your mother’s in the bedroom canceling with everyone we invited as we now have no food to serve them. So, yes, _before_ all these things were discovered, I did indeed say that you could open and then play with the erector set we got you.

“ _After_ is a different story. This story in fact. The story in which you do not get to open any of your gifts or indeed partake of any other of the Christmas Traditions your Mum and Dad will still surely somehow be able to foist on me.”

Charlotte jerks her eyes up and he belatedly realizes his mistake.

“Foist?” John murmurs, his brows knitting. Sherlock mentally scrambles.

“Not foist, as such--

  
“You--” John narrows his eyes, his gaze shifting slowly between Sherlock and Charlotte.

“Now you’ve done it,” Charlotte mutters, rolling her eyes. Sherlock spares her a quick glare. She’s got supercilious down pat too, now, apparently. He redirects his attention to a softly simmering John.

“By ‘foist,’ of course I mean--”

John shakes his head once, sharply. Sherlock still marvels at how this small gesture has the ability to shut him up even after all this time. He makes a note to work on that.

“You...you put her up to this, didn’t you?”

Mary bustles around the corner of the kitchen, phone in hand.

“So, they’re all still coming, Greg said he’d bring a ham. Said they’d already made it. You know, it says something about our choices in life when our friends assume we won’t be able to--what’s all this now?”

Charlotte is staring open-mouthed at her mother, her features registering growing horror.

“They’re still coming?” she squeaks. “Even though there’s no food? And no _point_ since all the presents are opened? Ugh…” Suddenly she’s up on her feet on the couch, pulling Sherlock around by the shoulder of his robe. “You promised! You said they wouldn’t come if we didn’t have food! You said we could set up the chemistry set today! You _promised_!” she yells into his face.  

“Oh dear God,” John moans, pinching the bridge of his nose and struggling mightily between shaking with laughter and shaking with anger. Mary leans up against him, staring at the tableau of their tiny girl clutching furiously to Sherlock’s lapels.  

“You promised Papa! You have to show me how to make flame burn blue. And the thing with sulphur. I looked it up! I even set up part of the process upstairs! You HAVE TO SHOW ME BECAUSE YOU PROMISED!”

Sherlock mentally reviews his list of options and finds all paths lead to at least one version of furious Watson-Holmes. He shrugs, as this is par for the course, and really there is no choice in the end.

He sinks to his knees and butts his head up against Charlotte, causing her to lose her balance and tumble to the couch, dragging him further down by his robe. She giggles, one sharp burst of mirth before she masters herself and glares up at him. Nose to nose, he stares into her dark blue eyes.

“We may have to rearrange our timetable, but I will certainly still show you how to burn flame blue and what happens when sulphur reacts with water. Perhaps after this dinner which we are apparently still having.”

Charlotte regards Sherlock steadily for a few moments then nods, bumping their foreheads together. Then she wraps her arms around his neck and snuggles in. His heart skips a beat, for Charlotte is practically never this demonstrative, not with any of them.

“Kiss me, papa,” she whispers against his ear and he tilts his face in and ghosts a small kiss across her petal soft cheek, daring to stroke fingers over her tangle of hair. From behind him, twin sounds of choked sighs indicate his spouses’ mental state has shifted dramatically from enraged to enthralled and he hides a smirk by pressing his face into Charlotte’s tangled mass of curls. He feels her giggle against him and takes the opportunity to squeeze her tight, not above a little manipulation of his own.

He straightens up, pulling her up with him into his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and only then dares to peek over his shoulder at her parents. They stand, arms wrapped around each other, wearing twin sets of besotted smiles. Perfect.

Sherlock sidles towards the stairs and they almost make it.

“Hang on,” John calls from behind them. Sherlock’s sigh matches her own as he freezes, one foot on the stair. “ _What_ chemistry set?”

“Run!” Charlotte squeals, and Sherlock huffs out a laugh as he darts up the stairs and through the door to Charlotte’s room where, sure enough, part of the chemistry set that everyone (including him) had agreed was too advanced for a girl of her age is set up on the floor next to her bed, volatile chemicals kept carefully to one side.

The sound of John and Mary’s laughter from below heralds their miraculous pardon and Sherlock hunkers down next to his daughter to check on her progress.

“What shall we do first, Charlotte, the blue flame or the explosion?”

“Blue flame!”

“Mmm. Merry Christmas indeed.”

 

 


End file.
